Invincible (AKA Your 2x09 Bandaid)
by bellenque
Summary: How 2x09 SHOULD have gone for Bellarke shippers...because it's the middle of season two and I'm getting tired of the subtle eye glances, murdered potential, and constant avoidance of feelings and emotions between two characters who obviously have more chemistry than the Museum of Science and Industry.


"Love is weakness," she said.

And he didn't understand.

That look in her eyes—disbelief and pain—was mirrored in his own. She didn't mean it; she couldn't.

Not after what had happened.

Bellamy had a distinct dislike for admitting to emotional agony, but the feeling in his chest was beginning to creep into the contours of his face and it took a great deal of effort to only let an inkling of a wince work its way into his features.

Her words stung.

_No Clarke, he wanted to say. Love is strength_, but somehow the thought got mixed up in the puzzled muddle of his mind and all he could say was.

"I thought you hated that plan. I thought I would get myself killed."

And without hesitation, without pause, Clarke gritted her teeth and spoke again. "I was being weak."

And now he understood. She was broken.

Somewhere inbetween the pressure of being a leader and the responsibility of saving her people, Clarke Griffin had cracked. And now she was trying to ignore the only people—the only _person— _who was capable of putting her back together.

Him.

"Here," she broke his train of thoughts. "Take this." A faded map was placed into his outsretched hand.

The words "Mount Weather" were clear and bold on the parchment. He knew what he needed to do— where he needed to be.

But did she? When Bellamy looked up again, Clarke was gone and when his eyes roamed the rows of tents, he could just make out the distant wisp of light hair disappearing behind a flap of fabric.

And all he could think about was how the Clarke he knew and the Clarke she was were not the same people. And all he could feel was anger at the boy she'd killed for causing her more pain than was he was worth.

And all he knew was that there was no way in hell he'd let another person he loved push him away.

Not if his life depended on it.

Bellamy stood in wonder for five minutes, trying to sort out his thoughts and—more painfully—his feelings. Raven had gone to get some gauze for her wounds, Lincoln and Octavia had wandered off to the other side of camp, and there he was alone; confused, worried, and angry.

When he made his way towards her tent, his boots dug into the mud more than necessary and the knuckles tightened their grip around the front of his backpack in determination.

He flipped open the entrance to her tent and stepped in.

Her back was to him as she crouched on the ground. He couldn't see what she was doing, but it looked medical. Herbs and pumice were collected neatly on the floor near her blanket.

"Clarke, we need to talk."

She started a bit at his voice, probably expecting her mother, but didn't turn around.

"About what?"

"The mission you're sending me on."

"You're the one that offered."

"Yes," Bellamy said slowly. "And you're the one who was very insistent that I not go."

She stood up now and turned to face him. The expression on her face was stoic, but the quivering of her lip and the darting of her dilated eyes gave her away.

"I changed my mind."

"Why?" he asked, taking a step forward, trying to trace the path of her decisions.

Clarke shrugged. "I told you. Love is weakness."

Bellamy quirked an eyebrow. "Says who?"

She opened her mouth as if to say something, but then quickly shut it, looking taken aback. He took another step closer.

"Clarke...says who?"

Her eyes glanced down in defeat. "Lexa," she whispered. "But she's right."

"No she's not Clarke."

"How would you know, Bellamy?" her voice rose an octave; hysterical and panicked, becoming louder with every sentence. "Have you been terrorized by nightmares and hallucinations of the boy you onced love? Have you been forced to set his dead body on fire? Have you been...been"—her voice broke —"expected to stay strong while your friends are trapped inside a mountain and your best friend's girlfriend wants to strangle you for killing her boyfriend and your mother thinks you understand the murder of your father because, really, now it should be easier to forgive her and...Oh! and and the only person who might actually understand you has to be pushed away because you can't deal with the fact that he's literally the only thing you have left and it's just better to let him go than to hang around and watch him die like everybody else in your life?"

She was panting now, the bow of her lip turned into a shaking frown and her eyes searching his for an answer to a question full of things she didn't even understand.

And Bellamy stared right back, trying to comprehend what she was saying. Of all the things she'd mentioned, one part stuck out the most.

"I'm the only thing you have left?"

She squeezed her eyes shut in pain and a tear slipped out onto her cheek.

"Not anymore," she whispered. "Not when you go. Then I'll have nothing. And then I can truly fight for _something_."

"You're wrong...and I'm staying."

Her eyes flashed to his and a determination settled in her spine—he could see it straighten.

"You're going," she said.

"No I'm not." He shook his head.

"Yes you are."

"No I'm not."

"Yes, Bellamy, you are." But now he could see her resolve weaken. Tears were brimming in her eyes.

"No, Clarke." He took the final step between them and wrapped her in his arms.

"You're going," she said, but her voice was rattled by the shaking of her frame. "You're going, you're going, you're going," she repeated, eyes raining.

"No, I'm not. I promise," he said. "I'm not leaving."

And then she let herself go, clung to his jacket and sobbed: for Finn, her friends, her father, her mother, for Raven, for Monty, for Jasper, for Bellamy.

She could feel a warm hand against her hair, his chin resting on the crown of her head, the soft swaying of their bodies.

And after a moment, she broke an inch away and looked up into his eyes, searching for a feeling instead of an answer. He returned her gaze.

And suddenly they were kissing. It wasn't the kind he was used to—not sloppy and passionate. It was soft and gentle. It was Clarke.

When they broke away, her tears had dried. Her head rested on his chest.

"You're wrong," he whispered.

"Hm?" she hummed.

"Love is _strength_." Bellamy pressed his lips to her forehead.

He could feel her smile into his shirt. "Then we are invincible."


End file.
